


compulsion

by poursuivre (entremelement)



Category: Coffee Talk (Video Game)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Fluff, Light Angst, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-12
Updated: 2020-05-12
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:54:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24152401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/entremelement/pseuds/poursuivre
Summary: “I haven’t been that much of an honest person, not especially to those who matter the most to me, miss.” Hyde bows his head down to look at the ripples slowly disappearing in his green tea.Or, a scattered chronicle of Hyde’s half-truths upon his return to Seattle.
Relationships: Gala/Hyde
Comments: 19
Kudos: 29





	compulsion

**Author's Note:**

> Look—I am horribly in love with this game and the way Hyde and Gala share their not-so-hidden glances in front of the barista. Consider this as my unwarranted attempt at showing their hidden interactions, a ton of Hyde’s thoughts, Gala’s implied invitation for Hyde to move in with him, as well as sneaking in as much of The Beatles’ discography as I possibly could. Hyde seems like the kind of guy who listens to them for **sentimental** reasons.

“Old man, could you be a.. well.. a little _less_ callous when you talk?”

Freya sips on her nth cup of espresso for the day when she begins telling Hyde off, who’s decidedly a seat apart from her.

It’s been a relatively quiet night until Freya spoke, and by the looks of it, the author got tired of making endless bullet points on her journal for the night.

Instead of stating a crisp and wildly uncalled for ‘fuck off,’ Hyde quirks an eyebrow at the statement, his hands still neatly folded into each other on the wooden countertop. “And what might I be doing wrong today, hm?” His pale hand reaches for the cup and instead of bringing it to his lips, it curls on the shape of the ceramic for warmth. 

Freya muses at the endless possibilities that her next few words could produce. She lays her palms flat on the counter, then comfortably lays her chin in the space between. If Hyde wasn’t the least bit incensed, he would have laughed at the sight of an actual _dogeza_ emoji happening in the flesh.

“I’m just saying, _old man_ ,” Freya begins, and the emphasis makes Hyde scowl bitterly. “Sometimes, you’re a little _too_ honest for your own good. Maybe the elves were actually out for your ass because you run your mouth a _little_ bit too much, don’t you think?”

Hyde now cups the ceramic mug with both hands, gingerly wrapping his digits around the warmth. In one fell swoop, he slides off his seat to move closer to the manic pixie walking snark machine. He drags the cup across the counter by the saucer and jumps on the next tall stool. 

On reflex, Freya almost moves her whole upper body to the side to evade an oncoming attack. Thankfully, the barista wouldn’t have to throw hands that night when Hyde calmly replies. 

“Truthfully,” this time, it’s Freya that winces, and she braces herself for the impact. “I haven’t been that much of an honest person, not especially to those who matter the most to me, miss.” Hyde bows his head down to look at the ripples slowly disappearing in his green tea. 

Curtness is Hyde’s strongest trait, and normally, he doesn’t mince his words. When Freya conjures up an articulate war between them, he lets her words fly over his head. Writers do have a way with words that could possibly creep into the deepest crevices of the subconscious, haunting you even as you sleep--except if you’re unbothered enough by their wit. Freya is no exception; while dealing with her on the daily does not require an extensive vocabulary, the girl’s made of steel when she brews plotlines in her head.

Hyde does not elaborate at all, not this time. Freya hoists her body upright, peers over the counter, eyes trailing to where the barista is, and finds them waving their hand in a small fanning motion, mouthing “let it go.” 

Freya, of course, does not.

A deciduous beat passes them by. Freya picks her pen up, previously laid on her open journal. Another beat, no retort. Rather than twirling the worn-down pen in her hand, she wedges it inside her journal. Air is tense inside Coffee Talk today, and the barista does not move, as they steadily leer at Freya with arms folded on their chest. “Freya, don’t.” The barista mouths. 

Freya, without a shadow of a doubt, ignores them.

“Truthful about? To whom? Come on, ol’ man, you’re not giving me any material here.” The green-haired fairy laughs heartily and for a moment there, the barista thought about yanking her invisible wings off due to sheer annoyance. Hyde does not bat an eyelash at the query. Instead, he puts elbows on top of the counter, folding his hands together in his usual contemplative pose. Eyes already half-lidded, he hides most of his face behind his hands as he mildly shakes due to his own chuckles.

The only two creatures in the cafe aside from Hyde ogle at him. Both are already deathly curious about this reaction, but do not prod any further.

* * *

On this night, of all nights, Hyde could not tear his eyes off the open divider as the vehicle’s speeding down the highway. Grunts and breathlessness linger on the other side as Gala barely manages to keep it in. 

“We’re near, Gala. Just a little bit more. Hold it in. Try.” A low growl escapes the driver that perfectly matches the rumbling beneath the vehicle. Repairs could just as easily be done, what with being a loaded stock trader and all, but if--god forbid--Gala crashes this car, then Hyde would be flung ungraciously through the windshield. Vampires are notorious in surviving grave circumstances, but the same couldn’t be said about the mammalian werewolves.

This car would crash and burn, engulfing its cause into an untimely demise.

Hyde spots a tuft of blue hair hurriedly sprouting fast from Gala’s cheek, and in a few seconds, completely covering his side profile. It was upsetting to think about, the way Gala could turn into a complete stranger as the moon waxes, as the manic guesswork of when exactly his driver would become a destructive force hangs over him. Tonight, it’s finally bared itself--at the worst of times.

“Gala, get a hold of yourself.” Hyde manages to comment, his pale hands already scrambling to clutch onto something-- _anything_ \--as the car roars when Gala erratically steps on the gas, throttling the poor vehicle to a dangerous 95 miles per hour.

The moonshine unceremoniously hits Hyde’s face, the light piercing and agonizing through the windshield. _It’s that bright today._ _No wonder._ It’s precisely what Gala’s been so afraid of, the incredulity that Hyde possesses for a wonderful but cataclysmic spectacle. _Flower Moon._ Reminiscent of the determined petals that bloom in quiet fields, the kick of May. The ushering of beauty, also the omen of destruction. 

Squinting at the unexpected brightness, he throws himself forward and pushes himself through the divider, despite the abnormal swerving motion. Hyde manages to put his body halfway through the divider, and for a second, he thanks his geneaology for making him unusually slender for a male vampire. 

“Gala! For crying out loud, get it together!” Hyde’s words bores through the air. With that, perilous as it may be, Hyde heaves his body forward once more and pulls on the emergency brakes, sending the car spinning on the highway, parading with loud skids as they tumble around. 

With a deep breath, Hyde stretches out to the driver’s seat. Falling to the side, he hauls most of his upper body towards Gala, whose eyes are now glazed over, and is completely incomprehensible as a beast.

Hyde’s arms snake their way around Gala, pinning the werewolf’s arms intact with a tight squeeze. Only snarls and Gala’s futile attempt to grapple him hang in the air. Being a vampire has its perks, and though frail as he may seem, Hyde manages to bind the creature in his arms.

“Gala. Gala, I’m here. Listen. I’m here.” For a moment, Hyde peeks at Gala’s mildly softened eyes as they filled themselves with excruciating tears.

* * *

On a lazy morning, Hyde finds lazily-scribbled notes scattered around their small apartment.

There was no surprise there; Gala’s always been the vocal one between them, and endearingly so. Hyde’s made a little competition of how affectionate they could get towards each other. It just so happens that Gala’s weapon of choice amongst his cheesy arsenal is his charming words. Not that Hyde had any complaints; he can hardly grumble about it when they’re the only interactions he has with Gala as he rouses himself up from where he lay.

There will be answers he could conjure, especially for Gala. Then, perhaps, he could escape this learned helplessness when he wakes up every morning, Gala-less but filled with so much longing to return the favor. 

He swings his right leg off the bed and gropes for the floor, his toe recoiling at the icy touch. His hand anchors on the corner of the bedside table, itching to pull his whole weight forward. With each movement, Hyde moves so gracefully--he wonders if he’d been doing ballet in his past life--not that he plainly believes in the afterlife and reincarnation. He’d probably sneaked in ballet lessons in his routine prior modelling, but he can’t be absolutely sure of it. By the time he’s a hundred and nine, a year away from eleven decades of forgetfulness, he finds it increasingly challenging to retain memories. 

Only for those involving himself, though. Gala is a different story altogether--his brain subconsciously ensures that there would be enough space for Gala to reside in his head. 

He’s alreay absentmindedly padded himself towards the stereo, and with a bit of fiddling, he settles with one of his favorite songs to keep him company during his morning routine.

As he made his way towards the kitchen, visible from all angles within their small studio flat, he spots familiar colored squares all over the floor, the house plant, on his mug, on the mirror--the possibilities are endless. What Gala lays his eyes on, he sticks a note on it. Hyde develops a particular fondness for notes he’d find on foodstuffs, which are mostly “eat this” on the mundane grocery items that Gala could find at the supermarket--ones he personally deems as viable substitutes to blood. 

_You say you will love me if I have to go. You’ll be thinking of me, somehow, I will know._

It’d mostly be pre-packaged veggie ravioli submerged in a boatload of bechamel, or a truly divine beef lasagna with a smattering of tomato sauce, but loaded with numerous shriveled-up sundried tomatoes.

It’s particularly humorous how pasta seems to be Gala’s go-to when he tries to understand Hyde’s diet. It is, however, no less delightful, with all the effort he makes even as he’s all tuckered out from the hospital. The grocery store’s five blocks away from the hospital, and he’d be walking away from the Light Link Rail to forage for their daily needs.

Well, Gala tries, and boy does he try remarkably hard to get to the root of Hyde’s diet. Hyde smiles at the thought. 

_Someday when I’m lonely, wishing you weren’t so far away,_

This isn’t new; Gala was always fond of scattering his thoughts on paper, mostly for Hyde to find. He’s earnest in his written thoughts most days. 

When Hyde came home one night a month into living together, hammered from one of Lost Angels agency’s infamous post-shoot party, he woke up with his already messy mop tousled beyond recognition. On their shared bedside table, a tab of baby aspirin and a glass of already tepid water, and, _wow, something else_. A post-it gingerly laid on the wooden nightstand, with the adhesive dried up and faulty, corners already curling inwards, catches Hyde’s attention. 

**Off to work early. Drink this. Coffee Talk later after duty. Take care.**

See, Hyde isn’t one for grand romantic gestures. Finding chickenscratch and wasted tree products all over the apartment’s more than enough to make him swoon.

_Then I will remember things we said today._

The kettle blows a high-pitched whistle and Hyde takes it off the heat. When he sets it on the marble countertop, he finds another note plastered on the foil pack of coffee beans, right next to the jar with an obscene amount of raw ginger in it. To guarantee that the note doesn’t fall off, the writer painstakingly stuck it on the pack with tape. Hyde blithely huffs at the effort. 

**Date tonight? I know home brews won’t cut it for you. You know where. See you.**

* * *

Contemplative, Gala loops his finger around the cup’s handle as the other hand monotonously scrolls through his Tomodachi!! feed.

It had been another long day at the hospital, and Hyde was more than elated to accompany Gala in winding down. His thumb stops when he sees a photo of Rachel at Couchella, her hair all up in a tight bun, lights onstage making her features all the more graceful. For such a young Nekomimi, she _really_ has the air of an adult.

Hyde was nursing his own cup of ginger lemon tea when Gala makes conversation. “Hey, Hyde,” Gala picks his cup up by its handle and sips on his remedy, eyes still glued to the screen. “What kind of music do you like?” Gala’s thumb starts scrolling again and when he looks at the vampire, Hyde’s scrunched up features meet him head-on. 

Gala heartily laughs with his eyes closed and sets his cup back on the saucer. “I take it you don’t like music, then.” Their faces are only a couple of inches apart, but Gala could swear he saw Hyde’s pale skin get tinged with a little bit of red.

“No, it’s not that, Gala.” Hyde turns away in an attempt to hide his light flush, knowing how observant Gala could be, before continuing on with his sentence. With a small grunt, he clears his throat. “In our.. _decades_ of friendship, you ask me this _now_?”

The hearty laugh repeats and Hyde’s heart--or whatever it is that resides in his hollowed-out chest cavity--flutters, it might as well have been struck with a silver dagger with the way it’s skipping. 

“I mean, it’s a valid question, Hyde. I don’t want to get into the discourse that vampires are unfeeling creatures who don’t have particular bops.” This time, it’s Gala who turns away, scratching the back of his head with his heavily-bandaged hand. “That’s why it’s better to ask one in the flesh.”

Coffee Talk’s mellow tunes fill the atmosphere between them as the barista’s occupied with dutifully drying the newly-washed mugs. Hyde nods his head in time with the beat from the first few notes. “This is nice. Debussy-esque, isn’t it?” Hyde muses. He picks his cup up and downs the rest of the cooled-down tea, careful not to let the ginger bits collide into his upper lip. Gala shoots his gaze up and tries to make out the music.

“Well, stereotypically vampiric, are we?” Gala’s eyes are glued to the ceiling when he says this, mind still trying to have a grasp on the familiarity that Hyde finds in the tune. Resolute, he lightly bangs a fist on the counter in stark contrast to Hyde’s gentle fingers drumming on his saucer’s rim. “Man, I can’t catch the tune. All I know is that it sounds classical. I have to hand it to you, Hyde, I wouldn’t have made that observation right off the bat.”

Hyde stopped to look at the ceiling, mimicking Gala’s searching gaze. It’s not as if they’ll find the answers overhead, but Hyde does this in solidarity with Gala failing to realize that he unconsciously scooched closer to Gala, the latter’s sideburns almost touching his pristine cheek. The barista pointedly holds their stare at the two for a long while before cracking a small smile at the sight. 

“The Beatles.” 

Gala wrests his gaze off the ceiling and snaps his head towards Hyde’s direction, visibly aghast and shaken out of focus. Hyde’s reflexes does not fail him when his head mechanically distances from Gala’s. 

“Huh?” 

Gala’s companion does not take his eyes off of the wooden ceiling joists. As Hyde ponders, his face relaxed and his hands, which usually covers most of his face, are folded reverently on the table. Gala is stunned beyond belief. He’d never seen Hyde _this_ relaxed in being pensive. It’s always Hyde avoiding conversations he wasn’t interested in, especially conspicuous talk about himself. The warm sodium lamps reflect on Hyde’s irises, resembling small constellations that dance around when his eyes glaze over.

“I love them. Reminds me of the time we met, the song playing at the bar. I was inebriated, but I remember it clearly. They were all the rage at the time.” Hyde finally pulls his gaze down and cocks his head slightly, lips hardly at all parted to let out a wistful sigh. Gala lays an elbow on the counter and puts his fist to his lips, lightly gnawing, the butterflies in his stomach becoming a bit too unbearable, what with Hyde and his sobering look. 

Hyde continues his tender chronicle. “The whole thing happened in a flash--it was true comedic timing. _Obla di, obla da, life goes on_ . We were both thrown out on our asses by the pavement, but, yes, indeed, life _does_ go on. Look at us now.”

Gala bites down on his curled index finger, hidden from Hyde’s sight. Eventually, he snaps out of it when he tastes metal; he hadn’t realized that he already drew blood. _So he remembers._

* * *

**Blackbird, fly.**

**Hope things get sorted out at the agency.**

**Here if you need support in rainy Seattle.**

**In the meantime, make yourself at home.**

* * *

Hyde knows that Gala lets words fall unspoken between them. _Ignorance is bliss_ , but most certainly not to Hyde. 

In instances when Gala neglects to speak about what’s truly bothering him, Hyde takes it upon himself to be the cartographer of Gala’s actual feelings, mapping out streets that would lead to better understanding. Maybe this way, Gala wouldn’t need to hide out at the hospital when his lunar pains bare themselves. Maybe, perhaps, it would not be lost upon Hyde when he comes across a familiar springboard into Gala’s emotions. 

From the way he quietly sets his bag down on the floor after work, careful not to make unnecessary noise, to the way he takes Hyde in his arms with a firm and secure embrace after his mandatory post-duty shower, body still radiating heat, Hyde’s already felt it all.

Perhaps only one thing is missing in this puzzle.

It takes Hyde by utter surprise when the usual rustling about when Gala comes home is turned into the door almost flying off when it gets kicked out of the way. _Ah_ , Hyde thinks, immediately rushing to the kitchen in his pajamas, barefoot. _It was far too quiet today, I had an inkling that this would happen._

An inconsolable beast wrecks everything in its path; the potted azaleas that Hyde brought home from New Jersey a week ago find their way on the floor, dirt scattered, the ceramic broken beyond repair. The bowl of keys by the door went flying across the room. Shoes are hastily kicked off and scrubs were torn in random places. Eyes are red with uncontrollable rage and fur on the back of his head are standing in ruthless attention. Gala was a mess.

Hyde reminds himself as he’s heating the milk up and slicing ginger that this is what it’s like every month. This is Gala’s source of trepidation, in the flesh. He’s not about to back down from it. 

Being in a car was different. Life-threatening accidents could happen any given day. Living in close quarters, letting chaos tumble squarely on his lap every month, _being_ with Gala, it’s a choice.

Ultimately, this choice leads to bearing Gala's fits, fangs and all. 

Tiles are cool against Hyde’s bare feet but he endures the Seattle chill as he reaches for the honey in the overhead cupboard. “Just a little bit more, Gala!” Hyde screams, doing away with looking over his shoulder at the werewolf tearing the sofa into shreds. Popping the drawer open in the darkness, he tries to fish out a teaspoon to stir the honey in Gala’s special remedy. The wide mug clinks when he hurriedly stirs the milk, indicative of what could only be overwhelming panic swallowing Hyde whole. 

“Gala, here.” Hyde does not approach with caution; instead, he glides past the kitchen gracefully to hand the roaring werewolf his beverage. It is a veritable emergency, and he’s found himself taking deliberate steps into the heart of the tornado. 

* * *

**Honey pie, you are making me crazy.**

**(I’m in love but I’m lazy.)**

**So won’t you please come home?**

**Will wait at Coffee Talk for post-duty beverages.**

**Conversations, too, if you want to shake off the negative juju.**

* * *

“I know you don’t take me for a fool, Hyde.”

The streets are drenched in rainwater, and Hyde’s shoes make an audible stomp when Gala shatters the quiet with his words. _What now, what’s this again?_ Seattle’s not usually filled with the smell of rain, but ever since the government’s efforts to cloud seed in every part of the United States started a decade ago, Hyde can’t complain much.

It’s humid, that much is certain. Hyde gently combs through his hair, careful not to touch his visible streak. Petrichor, in all its essence, is sticking to his hair, and stray droplets allow themselves to be absorbed. His hand weaves through the tangles in his hair, already cool and damp from the rain, and he restricts himself from pulling on the strands when Gala proceeds with a follow-up.

“You went back to Seattle for _me_ , didn’t you?”

It seems that Hyde’s lost the ability to breathe. Anxiety creeps up from the well of his stomach and gets stuck in his throat, reminiscent of a bitter pill and his early days of blood sobriety. It’s true, he came back for Gala, but he wasn’t even remotely ready to divulge that information with his _friend._

Oh, how he wishes he could. Maybe then, he wouldn’t have to hide as much. No more little white lies. Gone are the, “oh just in the area,” or “the modelling agency sent me here, what are the odds” days. If he knew that the lack of blood in his system would make him so much of a coward, then he would have gone and downed a full liter of it in one go and told Gala the absolute truth.

His eyes refocus on Gala’s back. This man grew ever so weary over the span of a few decades in the hospital, and his slouch shows for it. His broad shoulders are covered by a warm cashmere coat that spans to his hamstrings, covering most of his hospital-provided scrubs. It’s crazy that even hospital administrative staff were required to wear scrubs; how would people know the difference? Was he mistaken for a doctor several times a day?

That’s a thought: he’d be such a good doctor. Compassionate enough to help patients through difficult and life-threatening times. 

On second thought: this wouldn’t bode well in dealing with past demons, the nightly terrors.

“Hyde?”

It wasn’t until Gala snapped him out of his daydreams that he realized he was already fully doused. In his tiny reverie, he’d forgotten to walk and is now standing a ways from Gala, rain already beating down on him. Fully registering that he’d been digressing in his head over and over, Hyde looks at Gala’s worried face and the way he hurriedly jogs in his direction. 

They’d been walking side-by-side along the busy streets, and the rain wasn’t at all letting up, even way past midnight. He could feel his bones echo and creak against his flesh when he trembles.

 _Right,_ Hyde thinks. _Gala’s the one with the umbrella._

“That’s quite true,” Hyde blurts out without much contemplation. “I did come back here for you--”

But before he could continue his sentence, Gala extends his arm holding the umbrella to shield him from the rain, interrupting the thought. As they begin walking, Hyde starts dragging his feet, struggling to match Gala’s pace. 

“You know you don’t have to do that. I’ve been getting better.” There is a hint of misplaced concern in his voice when Gala steadily holds the umbrella over Hyde’s head, making his left shoulder vulnerable to precipitation. “And besides, since you’ve returned, I’ve been meaning to take you somewhere.”

A solid five minutes of silent trudging about ensued before the pair ended up in front of an unusually bright coffee shop in one dingy corner of Seattle.

* * *

“Ah, welcome back, sir,” the barista heartily rolls the words off their tongue as Hyde closes the door with a click.

Before the chime could even cease tinkling, Hyde already settles comfortably on the first seat at the bar. “What are we having today?”

Hyde wasn’t alone today. At the other end of the long counter, he sees long, bright blue hair, and delicate fingers taking the cup of hot chocolate. Beside the girl, an orc in what seems to be a bright red football jersey, holding her giggle back. With every stifle made by the orc, the mermaid would quietly weave her tentacles around the legs of the bar stool she’s on, personally restraining any emotional outbursts.

 _Oh, to be young and in love._ The blue-haired mermaid hopelessly entangles her appendages tighter around the stool when the orc claps her shoulder softly. 

“Sir?” The barista waves a hand inches away from Hyde’s face and he snaps out of it. Hyde turns his head toward the sound and sees the barista beaming at him. “Your order?”

“Ah,” Hyde fiddles with his fingers before folding his hands neatly into each other, atop his phone. “I apologize for the daze I was in; I’m in the mood for some chocolate. Just please cut back on the sweetness.” At this, the barista gives him a toothy smile before disappearing behind the machine. Hyde takes this opportunity to observe the two lovebirds seemingly in their own world at the end of the bar.

This time, despite the obnoxious hisses from the foaming machine, his ears perk up unexpectedly when he hears the orc speak. 

“Come on, Aqua. You’re a wonderful dev, and this isn’t the first time.” Hyde surmises that the orc could only be giving solace to the companion with that tonet, who’s now twiddling with her fingers on the table. “Your game could end up as successful, if not more than, Full Metal Conflict.” 

“Ehh,” the blue-haired mermaid, presumably Aqua, retorts, hesitation present in her squeak. “It certainly does not get easier, mingling with new people, seeing new faces who could possibly render my blood, sweat and tears into incomprehensible rubble with their criticism.” Aqua sips on her drink as she turns to the counter; Hyde couldn’t help but look at her side profile and the nervous tics manifesting on her face. Myrtle does not retort at once and waits for the lines on Aqua’s face to smooth themselves. 

Aqua breaks the tension first, if only to add more. “Myrtle, I don’t think I can do this.”

Myrtle sighs deep, the kind of sigh that comes before cracking your knuckles, rolling your sleeves up and getting to work--hopeful but mildly exasperated. “You’re the best at what you do, Aqua. Those gamers would be lucky to even have a chance to try your demo.” 

“Here you are, Mr. Hyde,” the barista’s saccharine voice cuts through the atmosphere as they place a cup full of what Hyde figures is chocolate, judging from the scent wafting from it. He has absolutely no idea what kind of concoction’s before him, but he realizes that in examining the sliced ginger, the cinnamon stick and the floating star anise, it’s an _incredibly_ spiced chocolate.

Hyde pulls the cup to his lips and takes a little sip. He squints at how the flavor fills his mouth--the bitterness intermingling with its innate cacao sweetness, and how the ginger adds a bit of kick to it. _It’s good._ He failed to consider that this barista has surprised him time and again, with extensive knowledge on how to cater to all kinds of palates. Setting the cup back down on the saucer, he pipes in with an unexpected brief critique. “It’s good, really. I can see why Gala loves it here.”

The barista, who was keen on seeing Hyde’s initial reaction, now completely sated with Hyde’s statement, grins. “It’s a Bitter Heart, sir.”

* * *

**The long and winding road**

**that leads to your door**

**will never disappear.**

**Welcome home. It’s not much, but it’s** **_us_** **.**

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**I’ve seen that road before**

**it always leads me here**

**leads me to your door.**

**You’re right. Seattle’s lovely.**

**(Rain, not so much.)**

**I’ve forgotten most of it, though.**

**Help me recall.**

**Get home safe.**

* * *

“You didn’t have to, Hyde.” Gala scratches the back of his head in utter confusion at the huge sack of ginger that Hyde hauled inside the apartment. The trip to Korea was brief and uneventful, and nothing about it prepared Gala for the sight of Hyde bearing gifts larger than his luggage. That’s saying a lot--for a model whose carry-on consists of _only_ scarves and all the rest are checked-in. 

Hyde hums a small tune as he quietly drags the sack inside their apartment. “It might help, you know. I learned that they have a local ginger tea recipe there. It’s called _saenggang cha_ ,” he pauses at the doorway and sees the flat illuminated only by the sunlight streaming through the window, bathing the floorboards with warm radiance. It envelops him into a familiar calm, meriting a silent grin. “You never know, some recipes might be more helpful than others?” Hyde takes small, calculated steps as he’s dragging the sack, careful not to spill its contents. Something in the air makes their flat serene today, and with that, Hyde hums a small tune as he’s working.

“Hm, that’s Here, There and Everywhere.” Gala notes, head bowed, both hands dragging two of Hyde’s many suitcases behind him. Hyde’s already at the kitchen counter, trying to empty the sack in the sink to dutifully wash large ginger crops. He continues humming the tune while gently scraping the dirt off the root crops with his hands, still under running water.

“Oh, I’m surprised you know this one.” There is delight in the way Hyde remarks at Gala’s musical knowledge. “ _Here, making each day of the year--_ ”

“ _Changing my life with a wave of his hand,”_ Hyde lifts his head up and spots Gala going along the tune, trying to heave the rest of his luggage inside the apartment, lifting the heavier ones, mindful of the easily-tarnished floorboards and how the wheels could just as easily leave perpetual scratches on them. “ _Nobody can deny that there’s something there--”_ Gala audibly pauses before singing ‘something’ and Hyde flinches just a tad.

“That’s not how the song goes, Gala!” Hyde’s brogues tap hurriedly on the floorboards as he approaches Gala. Gala replies with a gentle smile and outstretched arms at Hyde, and the latter could only manage to sink in his arms in an embrace. He laughs against Gala’s strong chest, and buries himself deeper in the hug as the other continues the song. 

“There, running my hands through his hair,” Hyde laughs louder into Gala’s chest and lightly bangs a closed fist on Gala’s shoulder when he starts swaying both of them to an invisible beat.

Gala stops singing and lays his cheek gingerly on Hyde’s forehead, but their inner music doesn’t. 

This time, Hyde pipes in.

“I want _him_ everywhere, and if _he’s_ beside me I know I need never care--” Hyde feels the vibration his notes make in his throat. Gala musters all his energy to avoid keeling over at the sound of Hyde’s singing voice.

“But to love him is to need him everywhere,” Hyde continues, possibly catching on to the fact that his melody halts all of Gala’s anatomical processes. “Knowing that love is to share--each one believing that love never dies--”

Hyde continues the musical onslaught upon Gala, who’s now frozen and has ceased swaying both of them. Gala’s body temperature’s starting to shoot up and Hyde could only manage to snake his arms around Gala’s torso, pulling him into an even tighter hug. He could get used to a stunned Gala, and it fills Hyde with pride to finally be able to reduce Gala into a blushing mess, after decades of hiding his own flustered moments. “Watching his eyes and hoping I’m always there--hey!”

Gala wordlessly lifts Hyde up in a princess carry; it was painless and straightforward, the way Gala does it--a bit telling of how Hyde keeps himself in shape for decades of modelling. 

“Gala, wait--” Gala does not, and impatiently huffs when he takes huge strides towards the bedroom. Hyde bangs two closed fists on Gala’s chest while chortling. “Get my carry-on! Way to spoil my surprise for you, silly man!” 

_I will be there._ Gala thinks, as he nudges the bedroom door open with his foot. He keeps the door ajar, a moment of unusual recklessness when he throws Hyde on their bed.

In this moment of peaceful unfurling, watching Gala search for his bag amidst the chaotic mess of luggages, Hyde recognizes the dissipation of fear, the conscientious restraints disappearing.

It’s not much, but it’s definitely _them._

**Author's Note:**

> This is a labor of love, and I give my heartfelt thanks to those who have reached this point. Thank you, really, for reading this humble attempt.
> 
> Songs I referenced in this fic (in chronological order)  
> 1\. Things We Said Today by The Beatles  
> 2\. Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da by The Beatles  
> 3\. Blackbird by The Beatles  
> 4\. Honey Pie by The Beatles  
> 5\. The Long and Winding Road by The Beatles  
> 6\. Here, There and Everywhere by The Beatles
> 
> Oh wow, given the choice, I’d put the entirety of the White Album in this fic, hahaha. 
> 
> Please do leave kudos or comments if you liked it, hated it, found them too out of character, etc. Criticisms, keysmashing of whatever sort, all welcome.
> 
> Come say hi to me on Twitter as well. I hope you’re all safe during these troubling times. Stay home. Play more Coffee Talk. Reproduce the drinks irl.


End file.
